


you are the warmest part of the winter

by ispeakbecauseican



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ??? are we even writing fics like this anymore idk ???, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, and then she left and was just in braavos / on the road for some time, au?? like idek tbh i don't even know where in the timeline this would go?, i guess imagine that like arya was with the house of black and white for period of time, making her way north and finally got home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 14:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17899838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ispeakbecauseican/pseuds/ispeakbecauseican
Summary: She returns and it is the last thing he ever expected to happen.





	you are the warmest part of the winter

**Author's Note:**

> uh.......... so i fully wrote this at least 6 years ago. i found it on my computer recently. i'm like not even watching GoT anymore and haven't for years. but i found this and it was all done except for an ending, which i remember having a hard time figuring out when i was writing it. so i slapped together something quick, did a proof-read and voila! there's even a bonus playlist at the end that was still on my ipod back when i made GoT playlists!
> 
> is it even in the same vibe with the fics in this fandom nowadays? idk, couldn't tell ya. if it's not, sorry abt it! but i do hope some of you enjoy. i basically just wanted them to be tender and fuck each other and for arya and sansa to be sweet sisters again. anyway bye!

She returns and it is the last thing he ever expected to happen.

There is nothing particularly special about the day. Sansa had been Queen for almost a year; and though unfinished, the rebuilding of Winterfell progressed smoothly. Gendry had walked into the Great Hall one night and saw the Queen and Lord Rickon tucked away in a corner, attention on a girl in front of them. Hair grown long and tangled in a braid over her shoulder. Eyes large and gray and familiar. Mouth set in a straight line. Arya returned home, sat with her family. He stopped in his tracks and her eyes found him across the room for a split second before she turned back to her family.

It was a shock to his system, the last thing he'd ever expected. He'd thought she was dead; had dealt with it years ago. For the next several days that was the only time he'd seen her. Though he did stay in his forge most of the time, and what business did the princess have being in a forge? But then one evening, as the sun set and the wisps of Spring's first warmth left with it, he looked up just as he was finishing the last of that day's work to see her silhouette in the doorway.

His hammer dropped, and he bent his head — eyes on her boots. 

"My lady."

She was silent for a moment, and he glanced up at her face to see a grin. A small smile with slightest little dimple on her right cheek. He hadn't remembered that from when she was a child. 

"You talk like a highborn now, Gendry. _Ser Gendry_ , I hear." Taking a few steps forward into the forge, she picked up a sword he'd prepared for one of the men earlier. "This is nice work. I'm happy to see you're still smithing. You've a great talent for it. Always have."

"Thank you, my lady. I am… surprised to see you here. In the forge. In Winterfell. I had thought you gone — dead — for so long." 

Her eyes softened and she put down the sword. "I was gone, though never dead." She paused. "And it's just 'Arya.' I'm quite fond of hearing my name."

She seemed to offer no other explanation as she approached him and lifted her hand to his bicep. 

"Come to the Hall for supper with me."

The whole interaction had seemed so unreal to him. Arya was in Winterfell. Arya was in his forge. Arya had spoken to him. And Arya's tiny little hand was on his arm. He could feel her. And he was stunned into silence. 

"Please, Gendry."

So they walked in silence together toward the fires of the Great Hall.

_______________________

They spend more time together as the days grow slightly longer. As the trees get greener and the air gets warmer. And it's a dream to him.

She is the same as he remembers. She is different than he remembers. 

She is older and quieter. 'Stupid' and 'stubborn' don't spill from her mouth like they did when she was just a tiny thing. But her eyes still flash at him annoyed whenever he teases her with his 'my lady.' He doesn't forget her comment, though, and he says her name far more times than a lowborn blacksmith should be saying the name of a princess. But he knows she likes to hear it. 

Her eyes are the same, her dark hair the same but longer. Her face is as delicate as it was when she was a child and he imagines her pale skin to feel cool, smooth. Freckles dot her nose, though, and that is new. He tries to count them when she isn't looking.

They're in the forge when he notices, really notices, how much she has filled out as a woman. She has a dagger strapped to her waist that needed fixing, and she insisted on watching him mend it. She was pressed up right behind him avoiding the sparks from the fire, focused on his work. But as he straightened out the small blade, he could feel her. The place where her hip pressed against him, the swell of her breast pressed into his back, her breath against the hairs on his neck. 

He was intoxicated, dizzy with her presence. 

And when he finished and she strapped the blade back in place, she picked up the new sword he'd just forged that morning.

"Come to the practice yard with me? Let's test out your work," she'd said with a smirk. 

He hesitated. 

"Please, Gendry."

It took her four minutes to best him and get him on his back, blade hovering an inch from his chin. He laughed at her — at himself — as her eyes danced down at him from where she stood above.

_______________________

He learned that she wasn't completely unscathed from the years she was gone. There were days when he never caught sight of her around the castle. He'd learned that it was those periods when she stayed confined in her room, under the eyes of her family. Those around Winterfell would just say that the princess was sick. He knew it had to be more than that, but could do nothing but wait for her to get better. 

Once, during Arya's sickness, he'd seen the Queen in the Great Hall at supper. He was desperate for word of her condition and waited by the door until she made her way out of the Hall.

"Your Grace, please excuse me, I do not wish to interrupt you. But I was wondering after Ar— after you sister, Princess Arya." He lifted his head. "Is she well yet?"

Though Arya and the Queen were night and day, sun and moon, their mannerisms were similar; her eyes softened like Arya's always did when she'd get lost in thoughts.

She pulled him to the side, "It is kind of you to ask after her, Ser. This sickness that she has, these spells— she gets tired. My sister tends to sleep much of the day and at night she just… she has so much in her head. Memories that are too much for her, I think. She cries sometimes. She is silent other times, just staring at nothing."

She paused, looking at Gendry for a moment. 

"She will be well soon. I will tell her you asked after her, that you're worried. Truly, Ser, she is alright. It will just take some time for her to cope."

And he knew in that moment why the people loved their Queen.

"Thank you, your Grace."

It is two days later when Gendry takes his midday meal in the fresh air beside his forge that Arya appears before him. He stands, hand outstretching toward her.

"Sansa told me you asked after me." Her voice was hoarse, and she had slight circles under her eyes. But gods she was beautiful to him; her presence a blessing. 

"Of course. Arya, you —" he couldn't get the words out. "When you get sick, I feel… helpless. I don't know what to do. It worries me; you worry me."

She walks up to him and wraps her arms tight around his neck. "I know. I'm sorry." She pauses, as his hand come up around her lower back. "I'm sorry," she whispers into his shoulder. Her skin is not cool like he thought, but warm. He melts under her arms as she tucks her head into his shoulder. 

And he doesn't care if people see. He doesn't care anymore about how he's supposed to act with her. This is Arya. This is his little Arya that he knew when she was a child and that he knows now. She is so smart and strong and soft. He trusts her with everything. She is in his mind constantly. He revolves around her now, and he's not sure that's healthy. But he doesn't care because she has made him _feel_ again and he is forever tied to her in whatever way she'll let him. 

They stand there for a while, quiet, until she asks him softly if he'll come sit with her in the Godswood.

"Please, Gendry."

And of course he will; he follows her until they are in front of the Weirwood and they sit, tucked together on the earth, in silence until the sky turns dark.

_______________________

She has him pressed up against the back of the stables — her fingers under his tunic, tracing light circles on his lower belly; her lips are mouthing perfectly at that spot just below his ear; her hips pressing into him. He can't stand it and he loves it and he loves her.

He _loves_ her.

The first time they kissed, he'd started it. It had been such a good day, the best he'd had in months. She had shown up to his forge early one morning before he'd started work and convinced him that they had to go swimming. It was the warmest day they'd had since the return of Spring, and she was itching to soak it up. 

So they went to one of the hot springs in the Godswood and spent hours lazing in the water. He swore his eyes had followed every drop of water that ran down her neck until it reached her shift that clung to the swell of her breast. And by the time they got out to dry off, he was dizzy with her.

They ate blueberries and bread on a blanket in the sun. And when he turned to pass the wineskin back to her and saw the inky blue juice staining her mouth, he leaned over to see if it would taste any different coming from her lips.

Since then they couldn't seem to stop kissing. 

She'd creep up and surprise him in the forge, planting a kiss on the back of his neck as he worked and catching beads of sweat with her tongue. He'd find her after sparring practice with her brother and drag her to the edge of the woods to press kisses into her _once, twice, three_ times until they were short of breath. Occasionally some people saw them, but Arya and Gendry didn't care. They had lived through hell, both of them, and what was the worth of propriety — of reputation — after all they'd seen? Why not take in all the good in life that they could? Why choose to pass it up for the sake of not offending others?

When Arya got sick, the Queen would now send for Gendry to help. And he'd stay with her, pressing kisses to her forehead and to her eyelashes and to the palms of her hands for days until she got better. The Queen remarked that she seemed to get sick less frequently now. 

And she was right. Arya was less detached, less quiet. She laughed more, and smiles came quicker to her face. She seemed more relaxed and comfortable to let the world go on as she took it all in around her.

But today, Arya was restless as she kissed him. She was unrelenting.

Stepping on her tip-toes, she kissed her way up to his ear. "Let's go to the forge."

Wrapped around each other on the bench by the fire, Arya's knees squeezed at his hips as she scooted closer, tighter into him. He could feel the heat between her legs. She reached for his hands and pressed them to her hips, as she licked her way into his mouth. She was everywhere; he felt her everywhere. 

His hands — much like hers had done earlier — found their way under her tunic and rose, rose, rose from her hips until her breasts filled his hands. She arched into him as he squeezed, massaged. How could this feel so right; how could she feel so right to him?

A soft moan escaped her and she pulled away from his mouth to lean her forehead against his. _Fuck_ , she whispered. She squirmed, grinding her hips down onto him. He couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe.

"Gendry," she whispered, taking one of his hands and pushing it down to the top of her pants. 

"Please, Gendry." 

There was no hesitation as he pushed his hand into her smallclothes to find her hot and wet and perfect, dipping his fingers into her as the heel of his hand rubbed against her _just_ so until all he heard were her soft little moans against his ear as she came, clutching tight around his fingers.

_______________________

The re-building of Winterfell was officially finished. Crops had been planted, the first seeds sprouting from the dirt. Trade was good in town. There was relative peace in the North. And the days were regularly and wonderfully warm now. 

Gendry was a happy man. He had always been unsure about the Gods — if they were there and watching over him — but on days like these it was easy for him to believe they were. Arya hadn't been sick in several moons' turns, and he took meals with her every day. She was happy and comfortable and healthy. And he knew, now. He knew she was in love with him too.

The Queen had called a feast in celebration of the finished re-building of Winterfell. Arya, to his surprise, had been excited about it. Sitting next to him in front of the forge, she turned to face him. "I'm just… I'm happy, Gendry. My sister is the Queen of Winterfell. People see her how I see her — graceful and beautiful and strong — they love her. And she loves them. And my brother… I thought I'd never get to grow up with my baby brother. But I am." She drifts off, the breeze catching a strand of hair and cutting it across her face. 

"And you're here," she turns back to watch the people milling about the path. "And I'm happy."

That evening, he showed up at the Great Hall in his finest tunic and his cleanest breeches. The music was lively and jilting, and couples had already filled the dance floor. Arya was at the head table, beside her sister and brother. And her eyes were on him as he looked across the room at her. 

Her gown was a soft gray, her hair loose around her bare shoulders, her cheeks rosy from the fires. She was smiling at him and she motioned him over to the seat beside of her where he remained for the rest of the evening. 

And he didn't feel out of place.

The Queen inquired about his latest work, and he and Rickon discussed a future hunting trip; all the while Arya's hand was solid in his. This was his family. These were the people he loved. 

The dancing and drinking were going well into the night, and it was only to Arya's insistent pulling of his arm that led them out of the Hall and towards the forge. She pulled him through the door and locked it behind them, turning just as he pulled her into him. Their lips met halfway, and they backed up until Arya's shoulders met the wall. 

"Arya…" he breathed into her neck. She tasted like water to a man in the desert; like milk to a babe in its mothers arms. She was warm and sweet and soft. "Arya."

Her voice was light as she let out a shaky breath, "I'm going to stay here with you tonight, alright?" He detached his lips from her skin to raise his head. 

"Yeah?"

She looked at him, slid her hands from his chest up his neck to his cheeks. "Yes."

And her lips were back on him immediately, pulling his face down to hers as he slid his hands lower, lower down the silk of her back to cup her ass and pull her into him. He lifted her as she wrapped her legs around his hips. And then he was everywhere, flattening her back into the wall — pressing into her. He couldn't get enough, wanted to touch her everywhere. 

She was relentless too: grinding her hips back into him; mewling into his mouth; pulling at the short hairs on the back of his neck. _Arya_ , he whispered. _Arya_.

He carried her over to the cot, and sat down with her in his lap — kissing a path from the corner of her mouth down to her collar bone as she arched her neck. And her hand on the back of his head guided his lips down to her breast. He kissed and sucked at her over the thin fabric of her gown; could feel her nipple pebble up and knew it'd take nothing but the slight touch of his tongue to make her moan out his name if he could just get her gown off. 

So that's what he did. They worked together to get the fabric unbuttoned and down her body. She stood up to let it fall the floor, and Gendry just sat and looked at her. Looked at Arya and her expanse of skin — smooth and pale and warm warm warm to the touch. 

She reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head before scooting back onto his lap, naked and clutching at him. Her chest pressed up against his was all he could feel, until he remembered that he wanted to taste her little breast. He kissed his way down her neck to her chest and sucked her nipple into his mouth.

And oh, Arya liked that. She was panting above him, clutching at the back of his head as she thrust her chest further into his mouth. "Gods, _Gendry_." Her sounds, her heat, her touch. He couldn't stand it. It was too much and he wanted more, wanted to crawl inside of her.

He picked her up and laid her back into the mattress, his hips between her legs and face still buried in her chest. It was when her back started arching up and her hips pushed into him that he lifted his head to look at her. Eyes closed, mouth rounded and panting, cheeks flushed. His mouth trailed down from her breast, over her her tummy and belly button, to the seam of her hip where he licked a path towards the dark hair. 

Looking up at her from between her legs to where she was staring at him through dazed, dark eyes, he hoisted her legs over his shoulders before dipping down to give her one fat, long lick. And oh, she was wet for him. Her hips shot straight up towards his face immediately begging for him to do it again. And he did. Over and over and over making his way up her pussy, mouthing at her clit. She grunted and gasped and let out the prettiest little noises he'd ever heard. His fingers rubbed where his mouth wasn't and he was everywhere and she was going to come. She was going to come. It was when he had his fingers knuckle-deep inside of her and his tongue pressing at her clit that she peaked — a hoarse moan, fingers pulling at his hair, thighs clenching around his head. She was beautiful.

He kept his fingers inside of her as she rode out her orgasm, and then kissed his way back up her body. She licked herself off of him, panting. Sloppy wet kisses all over his face. Kicking his breeches off, Gendry rested his hips between her thighs and tangled his left hand with hers. She reached down to cup him, to wrap her hand around his cock, and he couldn't see straight. Her little hand on him was better than he could have imagined.

She guided him to her and lifted her hips, opening herself. He looked up at her and she was focused on him. Fire in her eyes and breath coming fast. 

"Please, Gendry."

So he pushed into her, tight and hot and wet, and they moved together. Rubbing and pushing and panting and it was everything to him and they _fell fell fell_ together.

_______________________

And it was weeks later on a warm Spring day when Gendry requested a meeting with the Queen to ask permission for her sister’s hand in marriage. He was nervous, and his voice was small as he told the Queen that he loved Arya more than anything he’s ever known. She regarded him quietly with a small smile on her face. And when he finished, head bowed and hands clasped nervously together, the Queen remarked, “What has this all been for if not to savor the sacred sanctuary we find within the ones we love? Of course, Gendry. We are honored to welcome you into our family.”

The next day, by the hot springs where they went swimming those many months ago, Gendry took Arya’s hand and kissed each fingertip before asking to be her husband and continue loving her all the days of his life.

“Please, Arya.”

She grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0UX7zvLQwtvuvgZPGCjXpX


End file.
